Burning the Midnight Oil
by Mestizaa
Summary: It's the middle of July, Robert is in America and Cora wakes up cold. Character study. An attempt to explain Cora's behaviour in S4. Angst warning!


_Set in Series 4 when Robert is in America. Angst warning.  
_

* * *

**Burning the Midnight Oil**

i.

It's the middle of July and it should be scorching hot.

But she wakes up cold. Her teeth are chattering and every part of her is shaking. It's the type of cold that comes from within, that reaches ever part of the body. She feels it in her bones, in her soul, and she wants to hide away from it.

She curses Baxter for removing the large blanket. She curses herself for allowing it.

She is tangled in her soaked bedsheets, trying to pull them more tightly around herself. She keeps her eyes closed, and imagines her husband's arms wrapped around her. He would kiss the top of her head, and perhaps run a cloth over the layer of sweat forming on her brow.

She buries her head in his pillow. It smells like his aftershave.

It was so much simpler so long ago. But time went on; Cora grew older and a dense thicket of complication and frustration grew around her. It still grows, tightening its grip around her heart with each passing day.

And suddenly it's too much. Everything is too much. She grabs the pillow and with a strangled yell, flings it across the room. She hears the soft thud on the ground (she can't see where it went – the fire has yet to be built) and falls back onto the cold, hard mattress.

* * *

ii.

She hates her brother for being such an idiot and for his lack of sound judgement. She hates him for taking Robert across the the Atlantic and away from her. She hates him for his lack of honour, and for being so damn American in his disposition.

It's a funny thing to think, she realizes. She is the one who always finds herself on the receiving end of such disparaging remarks. There are many things wrong with many Americans. But there is nothing wrong with being an American in itself. She fought in that corner for many years before giving up and doing things _properly_. When in Rome...

Her mother thinks that she has gone soft. She thinks that her beloved Cora has assimilated. She accuses her of forgetting her roots.

(She may have learned to love tea, but she still says her hard r's.)

Mary and Edith never cease to remind her that she will never be English. She's not really American anymore. Not really. She is a square peg in a round hole and her edges have been shaved off.

* * *

iii.

She kicks the sheets off, and rolls towards her bedside lamp. She blindly reaches for the string, and pulls, a bright orange explosion of colour appearing behind her closed eyelids. Cautiously, she opens them, shrinking away slightly as they adjust to the light.

She's half tempted to sneak down to the servant's quarters to fetch her lady's maid. But then she remembers she would be fetching Baxter, not O'Brien. O'Brien wouldn't have minded, Cora is sure. Oh how O'Brien doted on her. She held her hand and let her cry on her shoulder when her heart was broken by the loss of her child(ren). She whispered reassurances when she needed them the most, and sat by her bedside day in and day out whenever she was sick. On top of everything, she was amazing at doing hair, and she was always ready with some juicy Downstairs gossip.

"Because you have a right to know, Milady," she said once. "You deserve to know what is going on in your own home."

Cora realizes in that moment how much O'Brien put up with over the years, and a small part of her wonders if that is why she left without a word.

Baxter is alright, Cora supposes. But she is quiet and doesn't like gossip. She is efficient and she is considerate, but she is not O'Brien. They are definitely not friends. They probably never will be.

(And O'Brien? Were they _ever really_ friends?)

Cora swings her feet over the side of her bed and stands. She heads towards her armoire and hopes that Baxter left something useful behind. Her long shadow follows her along the wall each step of the way. She slowly opens the creaky door, and is elated at the large blanket neatly folded on the bottom shelf. She it pulls it free, silently thanking Baxter for her initiative.

* * *

iv.

She is a broken doll, and they are all puppeteers. They know how to make her dance. She doesn't always want to dance. She has no control. Her play is already written. She watches from her seat as her story unfolds on the stage around her. It's all love and blood and rhetoric. They are meaningless words disguising seemingly meaningful moments that ultimately culminate in death.

Her entire being is the result of somebody else's actions. She never earned a penny in her life; she was given it. She saved Downton, only for it to almost be lost. She was supposed to produce an heir. She didn't. In the end, it all worked out regardless of her participation in the matter. Everything happens as it will.

She is a mother, and that should be her purpose. But her daughters are grown and they have their own lives to live. Mary has her own son to care for, and the running of the estate to handle. Edith is in London more often than not, and she's too busy being heard to listen.

And there was Sybil... Nurse Crawley as she was called during the War... She broke tradition and pushed boundaries. She was the one with the wild ideas and dreams that she never had the chance to see come true. The one who believed the most in the accomplishments of women was the one to be lost in childbirth.

Life has a sense of humour – the same dark, ironic, cruel sense of humour the English are so fond of. Life is rather pointles. It is utterly absurd that anybody should try to discern any sort of meaning from it.

So Cora doesn't try.

* * *

v.

She sits at her vanity, her blanket and the weight of the world draped on her shoulders. She finds herself alone and not knowing why. Her mind is on fire, and she wants – needs – to extinguish it. She doesn't want to think, remember, feel.

She reaches into the drawer and pulls out a small bottle and gives it a small shake.

It is almost empty.

* * *

vi.

On the day of the Bazaar, Cora is calm. Tranquil. She is awake, but her mind is asleep. Silent. At peace.

She surveys the green and for the first time, she really _sees_. She watches with wide eyes from a distance as the staff fret about. She smiles softly. They run about like ants, putting the finishing touches on minute detail that will undoubtedly go unnoticed.

She hears the motor of a car humming in the distance. He comes to her, like he does in her dreams.

"You're back," she hears her voice float in from a million miles away. "I can't believe it."

He continues walking across the grass. "If you knew how many times I've imagined this scene."

She hears his voice, smells him, tastes him on her lips, but she can't quite accept the fact that he is here with her.

She thinks she might still be dreaming. She doesn't think too much of it.

(Reality is too sobering.)

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_**A/N:** Thoughts?_


End file.
